The Project Gutenberg EBook of Curly, by Roger Pocock This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org/license Title: Curly A Tale of the Arizona Desert Author: Roger Pocock Release Date: November 23, 2012 [EBook #41447] Language: English Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1 *** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK CURLY *** Produced by D Alexander, Mary Meehan and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This file was produced from images generously made available by The Internet Archive) CURLY A TALE OF THE ARIZONA DESERT By ROGER POCOCK Author of "A Frontiersman," etc. Boston Little, Brown, and Company Copyright, 1904, By Roger Pocock. Copyright, 1905, By Little, Brown, and Company. All rights reserved. Published May, 1905. Printers S. J. Parkhill & Co., Boston, U.S.A. CONTENTS CHAPTER PAGE I. Apaches 1 II. Lord Balshannon 9 III. Holy Cross 16 IV. The Range Wolves 27 V. Back to the Wolf Pack 37 VI. My Range Whelps Whimpering 44 VII. At the Sign of Ryan's Hand 52 VIII. In the Name of the People 65 IX. War Signs 69 X. Storm Gathering 78 XI. The Gun-fight 89 XII. The City Boiling Over 106 XIII. The Man-hunt 118 XIV. The Frontier Guards 126 XV. Mostly Chalkeye 138 XVI. Arranging for more Trouble 145 XVII. The Real Curly 156 XVIII. The White Star 167 XIX. A Marriage Settlement 184 XX. The Marshal's Posse 200 XXI. A Flying Hospital 212 XXII. Robbery-under-Arms 222 XXIII. A House of Refuge 234 XXIV. The Saving of Curly 254 XXV. A Million Dollars Ransom 272 XXVI. The Stronghold 290 XXVII. A Second-hand Angel 314 CURLY CHAPTER I APACHES Back in Old Texas, 'twixt supper and sleep time, the boys in camp would sit around the fire and tell lies. They talked about the Ocean which was bigger than all the plains, and I began to feel worried because I'd never seen what the world was like beyond the far edge of the grass. Life was a failure until I could get to that Ocean to smell and see for myself. After that I would be able to tell lies about it when I got back home again to the cow-camps. When I was old enough to grow a little small fur on my upper lip I loaded my pack pony, saddled my horse, and hit the trail, butting along day after day towards the sunset, expecting every time I climbed a ridge of hills to see the end of the yellow grass and the whole Pacific Ocean shining beyond, with big ships riding herd like cowboys around the grazing whales. One morning, somewheres near the edge of Arizona, I noticed my horse throw his ears to a small sound away in the silence to the left. It seemed to be the voice of a rifle, and maybe some hunter was missing a deer in the distance, so I pointed that way to inquire. After a mile or so I heard the rifle speaking again, and three guns answered, sputtering quick and excited. That sounded mighty like a disagreement, so I concluded I ought to be cautious and roll my tail at once for foreign parts. I went on slow, approaching a small hill. Again a rifle-shot rang out from just beyond the hill, and two shots answered—muzzle-loading guns. At the same time the wind blew fresh from the hill, with a whiff of powder, and something else which made my horses shy. "Heap bad smell!" they snuffed. "Just look at that!" they signalled with their ears. "Ugh!" they snorted. "Get up!" said I; and charged the slope of the hill. Near the top I told them to be good or I'd treat them worse than a tiger. Then I went on afoot with my rifle, crept up to the brow of the hill, and looked over through a clump of cactus. At the foot of the hill, two hundred feet below me, there was standing water—a muddy pool perhaps half an acre wide —and just beyond that on the plain a burned-out camp fire beside a couple of canvas-covered waggons. It looked as if the white men there had just been pulling out of camp, with their teams all harnessed for the trail, for the horses lay, some dead, some wounded, mixed up in a struggling heap. As I watched, a rifle-shot rang out from the waggons, aimed at the hillside, but when I looked right down I could see nothing but loose rocks scattered below the slope. After I watched a moment a brown rock moved; I caught the shine of an Indian's hide, the gleam of a gun-barrel. Close by was another Indian painted for war, and beyond him a third lying dead. So I counted from rock to rock until I made out sixteen of the worst kind of Indians—Apaches—all edging away from cover to cover to the left, while out of the waggons two rifles talked whenever they saw something to hit. One rifle was slow and cool, the other scared and panicky, but neither was getting much meat. For a time I reckoned, sizing up the whole proposition. While the Apaches down below attacked the waggons, their sentry up here on the hill had forgotten to keep a look-out, being too much interested. He'd never turned until he heard my horses clattering up the rocks, but then he had yelled a warning to his crowd and bolted. One Indian had tried to climb the hill against me and been killed from the waggons, so now the rest were scared of being shot from above before they could reach their ponies. They were sneaking off to the left in search of them. Off a hundred yards to the left was the sentry, a boy with a bow and arrows, running for all he was worth across the plain. A hundred yards beyond him, down a hollow, was a mounted Indian coming up with a bunch of ponies. If the main body of the Apaches got to their ponies, they could surround the hill, charge, and gather in my scalp. I did not want them to take so much trouble with me. Of course, my first move was to up and bolt along the ridge to the left until I gained the shoulder of the hill. There I took cover, and said, "Abide with me, and keep me cool, if You please!" while I sighted, took a steady bead, and let fly at the mounted Indian. At my third shot he came down flop on his pony's neck, and that was my first meat. The bunch of ponies smelt his blood and stampeded promiscuous. The Apaches, being left afoot, couldn't attack me none. If they tried to stampede they would be shot from the waggons, while I hovered above their line of retreat considerably; and if they stayed I could add up their scalps like a sum in arithmetic. They were plumb surprised at me, and some discouraged, for they knew they were going to have disagreeable times. Their chief rose up to howl, and a shot from the waggons lifted him clean off his feet. It was getting very awkward for those poor barbarians, and one of them hoisted a rag on his gun by way of surrender. Surrender? This Indian play was robbery and murder, and not the honest game of war. The man who happens imprudent into his own bear-trap is not going to get much solace by claiming to be a warrior and putting up white flags. The game was bear-traps, and those Apaches had got to play bear-traps now, whether they liked it or not. There were only two white folks left in the waggons, and one on the hill, so what use had we for a dozen prisoners who would lie low till we gave them a chance, then murder us prompt. The man who reared up with the peace flag got a shot from the waggons which gave him peace eternal. Then I closed down with my rifle, taking the Indians by turns as they tried to bolt, while the quiet gun in the waggon camp arrested fugitives and the scary marksman splashed lead at the hill most generous. Out of sixteen Apaches two and the boy got away intact, three damaged, and the rest were gathered to their fathers. When it was all over I felt unusual solemn, running my paw slow over my head to make sure I still had my scalp; then collected my two ponies and rode around to the camp. There I ranged up with a yell, lifting my hand to make the sign of peace, and a man came limping out from the waggons. He carried his rifle, and led a yearling son by the paw. The man was tall, clean-built, and of good stock for certain, but his clothes were in the lo-and-behold style—a pane of glass on the off eye, stand-up collar, spotty necktie, boiled shirt, riding-breeches with puffed sleeves most amazing, and the legs of his boots stiff like a brace of stove-pipes. His near leg was all bloody and tied up with a tourniquet bandage. As to his boy Jim, that was just the quaintest thing in the way of pups I ever saw loose on the stock range. He was knee-high to a dawg, but trailed his gun like a man, and looked as wide awake as a little fox. I wondered if I could tame him for a pet. "How d'ye do?" squeaked the pup, as I stepped down from the saddle. I allowed I was feeling good. "I'm sure," said the man, "that we're obliged to you and your friends on the hill. In fact, very much obliged." Back in Texas I'd seen water go to sleep with the cold, but this man was cool enough to freeze a boiler. "Will you—er—ask your friends," he drawled, "to come down? I'd like to thank them." "I'll pass the glad word," said I. "My friends is in Texas." "My deah fellow, you don't—aw—mean to say you were alone?" "Injuns can shoot," said I, "but they cayn't hit." "Two of my men are dead and the third is dying. I defer to your—er—experience, but I thought they could—er—hit." Then I began to reckon I'd been some hazardous in my actions. It made me sweat to think. "Well," said I, to be civil, "I cal'late I'd best introduce myself to you-all. My name's Davies." "I'm Lord Balshannon," said he, mighty polite. "And I'm the Honourable Jim du Chesnay," squeaked the kid. I took his paw and said I was proud to know a warrior with such heap big names. The man laughed. "Wall, Mister Balshannon," says I, "your horses is remnants, and the near fore wheel of that waggon is sprung to bust, and them Apaches has chipped your laig, which it's broke out bleeding again, so I reckon——" "You have an eye for detail," he says, laughing; "but if you will excuse me now, I'm rather busy." He looked into my eyes cool and smiling, asking for no help, ready to rely on himself if I wanted to go. A lump came into my throat, for I sure loved that man from the beginning. "Mr. Balshannon," says I, "put this kid on top of a waggon to watch for Indians, while you dress that wound. I'm off." He turned his back on me and walked away. "I'll be back," said I, busy unloading my pack-horse. "I'll be back," I called after him, "when I bring help!" At that he swung sudden and came up against me. "Er—thanks," he said, and grabbed my paw. "I'm awfully obliged, don't you know." I swung to my saddle and loped off for help. CHAPTER II LORD BALSHANNON With all the signs and the signal smokes pointing for war, I reckoned I could dispense with that Ocean and stay round to see the play. Moreover, there was this British lord, lost in the desert, wounded some, helpless as a baby, game as a grizzly bear, ringed round with dead horses and dead Apaches, and his troubles appealed to me plentiful. I scouted around until I hit a live trail, then streaked away to find people. I was doubtful if I had done right in case that lord got massacred, me being absent, so I rode hard, and at noon saw the smoke of a camp against the Tres Hermanos Mountains. It proved to be a cow camp with all the boys at dinner. They had heard nothing of Apaches out on the war trail, but when I told what I knew, they came glad, on the dead run, their waggons and pony herd following. We found the Britisher digging graves for three dead men, and looking apt to require a fourth for his own use. "Er—good evening," says he, and I began to wonder why I'd sweated myself so hot to rescue an iceberg. "Gentlemen," says he to the boys, "you find some er—coffee ready beside the fire, and afterwards, if you please, we will bury my dead." The boys leaned over in their saddles, wondering at him, but the lord's cool eye looked from face to face, and we had to do what he said. He was surely a great chief, that Lord Balshannon. The men who had fallen a prey to the Apaches were two teamsters and a Mexican, all known to these Bar Y riders, and they were sure sorry. But more than that they enjoyed this shorthorn, this tenderfoot from the east who could stand off an outfit of hostile Indians with his lone rifle. They saw he was wounded, yet he dug graves for his dead, made coffee for the living, and thought of everything except himself. After coffee we lined up by the graves to watch the bluff he made at funeral honours. Lord Balshannon was a colonel in the British Army, and he stood like an officer on parade reading from a book. His black hair was touched silver, his face was strong, hard, manful, and his voice quivered while he read from the little book— "For I am a stranger with Thee, And a sojourner as all my fathers were; O spare me a little, that I may recover my strength Before I go hence, and am no more seen." I reckon that there were some of us sniffing as though we had just caught a cold, while we listened to that man's voice, and saw the loneliness of him. Afterwards Dick Bryant, the Bar Y foreman, walked straight up to Balshannon. "Britisher," said he, "you may be a sojourner, and we hopes you are, a whole lot, but there's no need to be a stranger. Shake." So they shook hands, and that was the beginning of a big friendship. Then Balshannon turned to the crowd, and looked slowly from face to face of us. "Gentlemen," he said kind of feeble, and we saw his face go grey while he spoke, "I'm much obliged to you all for er— for coming. It seems, indeed, ah—that my little son Jim and I have made friends and er—neighbours. I'm sorry that you should find my camp in such aw—in such a beastly mess, but there's some fairly decent whisky in this nearest waggon, and er—" the man was reeling, and his eyes seemed blind, "when we get to my new ranche at Holy Cross I—I hope you'll—friends—aw—and——" And he dropped in a dead faint. So long as I stay alive I shall remember that night, the smell of the dead horses, the silence, the smoke of our fire going up straight to a white sky of stars, the Bar Y people in pairs lying wrapped in their blankets around the waggons, the reliefs of riders going out on guard, the cold towards dawn. The little boy Jim had curled up beside me because he felt lonesome in the waggon. Balshannon lay by the fire, his mind straying away off beyond our range. Often he muttered, but I could not catch the words, and sometimes said something aloud which sounded like nonsense. It must have been midnight, when all of a sudden he sat bolt upright, calling out loud enough to waken half the camp— "Ryan!" he shouted, "don't disturb him, Ryan! He's upstairs dying. If you fire, the shock will—Ryan! Don't shoot! Ryan!" Then with a groan he fell back. I moistened his lips with cold tea. "All right," he whispered, "thanks, Helen." For a long time he lay muttering while I held his hands. "You see, Helen," he whispered, "neither you nor the child could be safe in Ireland. Ryan killed my father." He seemed to fall asleep after that, and, counting by the stars, an hour went by. Then he looked straight at me— "You see, dear? I turned them out of their farms, and Ryan wants his revenge, so——" Towards morning I put some sticks on the fire which crackled a lot. "Go easy, Jim," I heard him say, "don't waste our cartridges. Poor little chap!" Day broke at last, the cook was astir, and the men rode in from herd. I dropped off to sleep. It was noon before the heat awakened me, and I sat up to find the fire still burning, but Lord Balshannon gone. I saw his waggons trailing off across the desert. Dick Bryant was at the fire lighting his pipe with a coal. "Wall," said he, "you've been letting out enough sleep through yo' nose to run an engine. Goin' to make this yo' home?" "The camp's moved?" "Sure. I've sent the Britisher's waggons down to Holy Cross. He bought the place from a Mexican last month." "Is it far?" "About twenty mile. I've been down there this morning. I reckon the people there had smelt Apaches and run. It was empty, and that's why I'm making this talk to you. I cayn't spare my men after to-day, and I don't calculate to leave a sick man and a lil' boy thar alone." "I'll stay with them," said I. "That's good talk. If you-all need help by day make a big smoke on the roof, or if it's night just make a flare of fire. I'll keep my outfit near enough to see." "You reckon there'll be Indians?" "None. That was a stray band, and what's left of it ain't feeling good enough to want scalps. But when I got to Holy Cross this morning I seen this paper, and some tracks of the man who left it nailed on the door. I said nothing to my boys, and the Britisher has worries enough already to keep him interested, but you ought to know what's coming, in case of trouble. Here's the paper. "'Grave City, Arizona, "'3rd February, 1886. "'My Lord, "'This is to tell you that in spite of everything you could do to destroy me, I'm safe in this free country, and doing well. I've heard of the horrible crime you committed in driving the poor people from your estate in Ireland, from homes which we and our fathers have loved for a thousand years. Now I call the holy saints to witness that I will do to you as you have done to me, and to my people. The time will come when, driven from this your new home, without a roof to cover you, or a crust to eat, your wife and boy turned out to die in the desert, you will plead for even so much as a drink, and it will be thrown in your face. I shall not die until I have seen the end of your accursed house. "'(Sd.) George Ryan.' "These Britishers," said Bryant, "is mostly of two breeds—the lords and the flunkeys; and you kin judge them by the ways they act. This Mr. Balshannon is a lord, and thish yer Ryan's a flunk. If a real man feels that his enemy is some superfluous on this earth, he don't make lamentations and post 'em up on a door. No, he tracks his enemy to a meeting; he makes his declaration of war, and when the other gentleman is good and ready, they lets loose with their guns in battle. This Ryan here has the morals of a snake and the right hand of a coward." "Do I give this paper," said I, "to Mr. Balshannon?" "It's his business, lad, not ours. But until this lord is well enough to fight, you stands on guard." CHAPTER III HOLY CROSS Editor's Note.—The walls of Holy Cross rise stark from the top of a hill on the naked desert; and in all the enormous length and breadth of this old fortress there is no door or window to invite attack. At each of the four corners stands a bastion tower to command the flanks, and in the north wall low towers defend the entrance, which is a tunnel through the buildings, barred by massive doors, and commanded by loopholes for riflemen. The house is built of sun-dried bricks, the ceilings of heavy beams supporting a flat roof of earth. As one enters the first courtyard one sees that the buildings on the right are divided up into a number of little houses for the riders and their families; in front is the gate of the stable court, on the left are the chapel and the dining-hall, and in the middle of the square there is a well. Through the dining-hall on the left one enters the little court with its pool covered with water-lilies, shaded by palm trees, and surrounded by an arcade which is covered by creeping plants, ablaze with flowers. The private rooms open upon this cloister, big, cool, and dark, forming a little palace within the fortress walls. Such is the old Hacienda Santa Cruz which Lord Balshannon had bought from El Señor Don Luis Barrios. From the beginning I saw no sign and smelt no whiff of danger either of Apaches or of Mr. Ryan. When Balshannon was able to ride I gave him Ryan's letter, watched him read it quietly, but got nary word from him. He looked up from the letter, smiling at my glum face. "Chalkeye," said he, "couldn't we snare a rabbit for Jim to play with?" He and the kid and me used to play together like babies, and Jim was surely serious with us men for being too young. In those days Balshannon took advice from Bryant, our nearest neighbour, whose ranche was only one day's ride from Holy Cross. Dick helped him to buy good cattle to stock our range, and two thoroughbred English bulls to improve the breed. Then he bought ponies, and hired Mexican riders. So I began to tell my boss and his little son about cows and ponies—the range-riding, driving, and holding of stock; the roping, branding, and cutting out; how to judge grass, to find water, to track, scout, and get meat for the camp. The boss was too old and set in his ways to learn new play, but Jim had his heart in the business from the first, growing up to cow-punching as though he were born on the range. Besides that I had to learn them both the natural history of us cowboys, the which is surprising to strangers, and some prickly. Being thoroughbred stock, this British lord and his son didn't need to put on side, or make themselves out to be better than common folks like me. After the first year, when things were settled down and the weather cool, Lady Balshannon came to Holy Cross, and lived in the garden court under the palm trees. She was a poor invalid lady, enjoying very bad health, specially when we had visitors or any noise in the house. She never could stand up straight against the heat of the desert. On the range I was teacher to Jim; but in the house this lady made the kid and me come to school for education. We used to race neck and neck over our sums and grammar of an evening. I guess I was the most willing, but the kid had much the best brains. He beat me anyways. Sometimes I got restless, sniffing up wind for trouble, riding around crazy all night because I was too peaceful and dull to need any sleep. But then the boss wanted me in his business, the lady needed me for lessons and to do odd jobs, the kid needed me to play with and to teach him the life of the stock range; so when I got "Pacific Ocean fever" they all made such a howl that I had to stay. Stopping at Holy Cross grew from a taste into a habit, and you only know the strength of a habit when you try to kill it. That family had a string round my hind leg which ain't broken yet. The boss made me foreman over his Mexican cowboys, and major-domo in charge of Holy Cross. In the house I was treated like a son, with my own quarters, servants, and horses, and my wages were paid to me in ponies until there were three hundred head marked with my private brand. Some people with bad hearts and forked tongues have claimed that I stole these horses over in Mexico. I treat such with dignified silence and make no comment except to remark that they are liars. Anyway, as the years rolled on, and the business grew, Mr. Chalkeye Davies became a big chief on the range in Arizona. When the kid was fourteen years old he quit working cows with me, and went to college. Balshannon missed him some, for he took to straying then, and would go off in the fall of the year for a bear-hunt, in the winter to stay with friends, and the rest of the time would hang around Grave City. I reckon the desert air made him thirsty, because he drank more than was wise, and the need for excitement set him playing cards, so that he lost a pile of money bucking against the faro game and monte. He left me in charge of his business, to round up his calves for branding, and his beef for sale, to keep the accounts, to pay myself and my riders, and ride guard for his lady while she prayed for his soul, alone at Holy Cross. When Jim wanted money at college he wrote to me. In all that time we were not attacked by Indians, Ryans, or any other vermin. Upon the level roof of Holy Cross there was space enough to handle cavalry, and a wide outlook across the desert. There we had lie-down chairs, rugs, and cushions; and after dinner, when the day's work was done, we would sit watching the sunset, the red afterglow, the rich of night come up in the east, the big stars wheeling slowly until it was sleep-time. But when the boy was at college, and the boss away from home, there was only Lady Balshannon and me to share the long evenings. "Billy," she said once, for she never would call me Chalkeye, "Billy, do you know that I'm dying?" "Yes, mum, and me too, but I don't reckon to swim a river till I reach the brink." "My feet are in the waters, Billy, now." "I wouldn't hurry, mum. It may be heaven beyond, or it may be—disappointing." "You dear boy," she laughed; "I want to tell you a story." I lit a cigarette, and lay down at the rugs at her feet. "I can bear it, mum." She lay back in her chair, brushing off the warm with her fan. "Did my husband ever tell you about a man named Ryan?" "Not to me—no." "Well, the Ryans were tenant farmers on the Balshannon Estate, at home in Ireland. They were well-to-do yeomen, almost gentlefolk, and George Ryan and my husband were at school together. They might have been friends to-day, but for the terrible Land League troubles, which set the tenants against their landlords. It was a sort of smouldering war between the poor folk and our unhappy Irish gentry. It's not for me to judge; both sides were more or less in the wrong; both suffered, the landlords ruined, the tenants driven into exile. It's all too sad to talk about. "My husband's regiment was in India then; my son was born there. Rex used to get letters from poor Lord Balshannon, his father, who was all alone at Balshannon, reduced to dreadful poverty, trying to do his duty as a magistrate, while the wretched peasants had to be driven from their homes. His barns were burnt, twice the house was set on fire, his cattle and horses were mutilated in the fields, and he never went out without expecting to be shot from behind a hedge. He needed help, and at last my husband couldn't bear it any longer. He sent in his papers, left the profession he loved, and went back to Ireland. He was so impatient to see all his old friends that he wired Mr. George Ryan to meet the train at Blandon, and drive with him up to Balshannon House for dinner. Nobody else was told that Colonel du Chesnay was coming. Would you believe it, Billy, those Land Leaguers tore up the track near Blandon Station, pointing the broken rails out over the river! Mr. Ryan was their leader, who knew that my husband was in the train. Nobody else knew. No, mercifully the train wasn't wrecked. The driver pulled up just in time, and my husband left the train then, and walked up through Balshannon Park to the house. He found his father ill in bed; something wrong with the heart, and sat nursing him until nearly midnight, when the old man fell asleep. After that he crept down very quietly to the dining-room. He found cheese and biscuits, and went off in search of some ale. When he came back he found Mr. Ryan in the dining-room. "The man was drenched to the skin, and scratched from breaking through hedges. He said that the police were after him with a warrant on the charge of attempted train-wrecking. He swore that he was innocent, that he had come to appeal to Lord Balshannon against what he described as a police conspiracy. Rex told him that the old man was too ill to be disturbed, that the least shock might be fatal. 'Surrender to me,' said Rex, 'and if the police have been guilty of foul play, I'll see that you get full justice.' "At that moment they heard footsteps outside on the gravel, and peeping out through the window, Mr. Ryan found that the police had surrounded the building. He charged Rex with setting a trap to catch him: he pointed a pistol in my husband's face. 'Don't fire!' said Rex, 'my father is upstairs very ill, and if you fire the shock may be fatal. Don't fire!' "Mr. Ryan fired. "The bullet grazed my husband's head, and knocked him senseless. When he recovered he found that Ryan had escaped—nobody knows how, and a sergeant of the Royal Irish Constabulary told him that the police were in hot pursuit. He heard shots fired in the distance, and that made him frightened for his father. He rushed out of the room, and half-way up the staircase found the old may lying dead. The shock had killed him." "Lady," I said, "if I were the boss, I'd shoot up that Ryan man into small scraps." "Billy, you've got to save my husband from being a murderer." "Ryan," said I, "ain't eligible for the grave until he meets up with Balshannon's gun." "Promise me to save my husband from this crime." "But I cayn't promise to shoot up this Ryan myself. He's Balshannon's meat, not mine." "You must dissuade my husband." "I'll dissuade none between a man and his kill." "Oh, what shall I do!" she cried. "Is your son safe," I asked, "while Ryan lives?" "Why do you say that?" "Didn't your man drive all the people off the Balshannon range, and make it a desert?" "Alas! may he be forgiven!" "Will Ryan forgive? Is your son safe?" I sat dead quiet while the lady cried. When a woman stampedes that way you can't point her off her course, or she'd mill round into hysterics; you can't head her back, for she'd dry up hostile; so it's best to let her have her head and run. When she's tired running she'll quit peaceful. I lit a cigarette and began to round up all the facts in sight, then to cut the ones I wanted, and let the rest of the herd adrift. When our Balshannon outfit first camped down in Holy Cross, this Ryan began to accumulate with his family in the nearest city—this being Grave City—one hundred miles west. Grave City was new then; a yearling of a city, but built on silver, and undercut with mines. Ryan took Chance by the tail and held on, starting a livery stable, then a big hotel, while he dealt in mines and helped poor prospectors to find wealth. So Ryan bogged down in riches, the leading man at Grave City, with daughters in society, and two sons at college. Only this Ryan was shy of meeting up with Lord Balshannon, and I took notice year after year that when my boss went to the city Mr. Ryan happened away on business. Someone was warning Ryan. "Lady," said I, so sudden that she forgot to go on crying. "You've warned Ryan again and again." "How do you know that, Billy?" "It's a hundred-mile ride to Grave City, but it's only sixty to Lordsburgh on the railroad. Every time the boss goes to Grave City you send off a rider swift to Lordsburgh. He telegraphs from there to Grave City." "Messages to my husband." "And warnings to Ryan!" She was struck silent. "You're saving up Ryan until he gets the chance—to strike." "Oh, how can you say such things! Besides, Mr. Ryan's afraid, that's why he runs away." "Ryan ain't playing no common bluff with guns. The game he plays ain't killing. He wants you—all alive—like a cat wants mice; I don't know how, I don't know when—but here are the words he nailed on to the door of this house before Lord Balshannon came:— "'The time will come when, driven from your home, without a roof to cover you or a crust to eat, your wife and boy turned out to die in the desert, you——'" "Stop! Stop!" she screamed. "Promise me, lady, that you'll send no more messages to Ryan." "It's murder!" "No, lady, this is a man's game, called war!" "I promise," she whispered, "I'll send no more warnings." CHAPTER IV THE RANGE WOLVES That same winter Lord Balshannon came down from Lordsburgh on the railroad, by way of Bryant's ranche, and tracked my round-up outfit to our camp at Laguna. That was the spot where the patrone and I fought the Apache raiders, but since then we had built corrals beside the pool, the ring-fences which are used for handling livestock. I had twenty Mexican vaqueros with me, branding calves; and the patrone found us all at supper. While we ate he told me the news—how Dick Bryant was elected Sheriff of the county; how Mr. Ryan's eldest son had left college and gone into business in New York; how three bad men had been lynched by the Vigilance Committee at Grave City; and how Low-Lived Joe had shot up two Mexicans for being too obstreperous at cards. The boss had always some gossip for me at tea-time. After supper he passed me a cigar. "Chalkeye," said he, "give these boys as much sleep as you can. At midnight you pull out of camp for Wolf Gap; strike in there at the first streak of dawn, gather the whole of our horses, then run them as hard as you can to Holy Cross, and throw them into the house." "Indians?" I asked. "No, horse rustlers. Bryant gave me the office that some outlaws have come down from Utah. They've heard of our half-bred ponies, and they're in need of remounts." "We've only two days' forage at the house." "After to-morrow let the herd into the home pasture under a strong guard by day. Throw them into the house every night, and post a relief of sentries on the roof. We mustn't—haw, allow the poor robbers to fall into temptation, so see that the men have—er plenty of ammunition." "These robbers may round up our cattle." "If they do they will have to drive slow, and Bryant will hold the railway-line in force, with troops if necessary, er— Chalkeye!" "Yessir." "A friend of mine has turned this gang loose on my stock. There's been crooked work." "Ryan work, sir?" "What makes you think that?" "The birds. I want leave to go shoot Ryan." "Indeed, ah! I've promised my wife not to—er shoot Mr. Ryan." He stood up and grabbed my paw. "Chalkeye, we must try to behave like—er Christians, for her sake. Now I must be off. You'll find me at Holy Cross." At noon next day I brought our herd to Holy Cross, and watered all the horses at the dam below the house. This dam crossed a small hollow holding some two or three acres of water, directly under the western wall of the Hacienda. Some old trees sheltered the water, and one of these had been blown down by a gust of wind. As I drove the remuda to the gates, one of the mares got snarled up in the wrecked tree, broke her leg, and had to be shot. Then I threw the herd into the stable-court, and went to my quarters. I reckon that I had been thirty-four hours in the saddle, and used up five horses, so I wanted much to get my eye down for a little sleep. While the peon pulled off my boots I gave orders mixed with yawns to my segundo. "Take charge, Teniente, and report my obedience to El Señor Don Rex. Post a guard of four in the gate-house, close the gates, and place a relief of sentries on the North-west Bastion. If the sentry sees anybody coming, the guard is to call me at once. See that my riders get sleep till sundown, then send a couple of them to haul that dead mare from the water-hole." I had not slept an hour when a man from the guard-house came running to wake me up. I jumped into my boots, grabbed my gun, and bolted to the gates, where Balshannon joined me at the spy-hole. "Who's coming?" he asked. "A white man, patrone, and a boy, on the dead run." "Message from Bryant, eh? Let them in." I swung the gates wide open, and we stood watching the riders—a middle-aged stockman and a young cowboy, burning the trail from the north. As they came surging up the approach I reckon their horses smelt a whiff of blood from that dead mare beside the water-hole. Horses go crazy at the smell of blood, and though the man held straight on at a plunging run for the gates, the boy lacked strength to control his mare. When she swerved he spurred, then she began to sunfish, throwing one shoulder to the ground, and then the other, while she bucked. At this the youngster lost his nerve and tried to dismount, the same being the shortest way to heaven, for when the mare felt his weight come on one stirrup she made a side spring, leaving him in the air, then bolted, dragging him by the foot while she kicked the meat from his bones. He was surely booked right through to glory but for Balshannon. My boss was a quick shooter and accurate, so that his first bullet caught the mare full between the eyes, and dropped her dead in her tracks. I raised the long yell for my men, as we rushed to get the boy from under her body. It seemed to me at the time that the elder man never reined, but made a clear spring from his galloping horse to the ground, reaching the mare with a single jump before she had time to drop. Grabbing her head, he swung his full weight, and threw her falling body clear of the boy. When we reached the spot he was kneeling beside him in the sand. "Stunned," he said, "that's all! Seh," he looked up at the patrone, and I saw the tears were starting from his eyes. "Seh, you've saved my son's life with that shot, I reckon"—his voice broke with a sob—"you've sure made me yo' friend." "Nothing broken, I hope?" said Balshannon. "No, seh. The stirrup seems to have twisted this foot." I sent some men for a ground sheet in which the boy could be carried without pain. Balshannon sent for brandy. Still kneeling beside his son, the stranger looked up into the patrone's face. "You are Lord Balshannon?" he asked. "At your service, my good fellow—well?" "Do any of yo' greasers speak our language?" "I fancy not." "Then I have to tell you, seh, that I am Captain McCalmont, and my outfit is the Robbers' Roost gang of outlaws." He was bending down over his son. "I asked no question, my friend," said Lord Balshannon, "we never question a guest." "You make me ashamed, seh. I came with a passel of lies, to prospect around with a view to doing you dirt." Balshannon chuckled, and I saw by the glint in his eye that he was surely enjoying this robber. "You'll dine with me?" said he. Captain McCalmont looked up sharply to see what game the patrone was playing. "You will notice, Captain," said the boss, "that my house is like a deadfall trap. Indeed—ah, yes, only one door, you see." For answer the robber unbuckled his belt and let it fall to the ground. "Take my gun," he said. "Do you suppose I daren't trust you, seh?" A servant had brought the brandy, and McCalmont rubbed a little on his son's face, then poured a few drops between his teeth. Presently the lad stirred, moaning a little. "Let's take him to the house," said I. "No, Mistah Chalkeye Davies," answered the robber, "not until this gentleman knows some more, a whole lot more. Here, Curly," he whispered, "wake up, bo'." The lad opened his eyes, clear blue like the sky, and smiled at his father. "Air you safe, dad?" he whispered. "Sure safe." Curly closed his eyes and lay peaceful. The hold-up was squatting back on his heels, looking out across the desert. "Don Rex," said he, "I had a warning sent to Sheriff Bryant that I was coming down to lift all yo' hawsses. My wolves tracked Bryant's rider to Lordsburgh, where he wired to you. You came running, and had all yo' hawsses rounded up convenient for me, in the stable-yard of this house. I thank you, seh." "My good man, I'll bet you an even thousand dollars," said the patrone, "that you don't lift a hoof of my haw—remuda." "It's a spawtin' offer, and tempts me," answered the outlaw. "Oblige me by taking my gun from the ground here and firing three shots in the air." The patrone took the gun, and at his third shot saw a man ride out from behind the bastion on our right. McCalmont waved to him, and he came, putting a silk mask over his face as he rode, then halted in front of us, shy as a wolf, gun ready for war. "Young man," said McCalmont, "repeat to these gentlemen here the whole of yo' awdehs fo' the day. Leave out the names of the men." "You're giving us dead away!" said the rider, threatening McCalmont with his gun. "You mean that?" "I mean what I say." "Ah! Excuse me, McCalmont," said the patrone, "your—er—pistol, I think." "Thanks, seh." McCalmont took the gun. "Repeat the awdehs!" he said. "These gentlemen are our friends." "Well, you knows best," came the voice from behind the mask. "Three men to cover your approach to Holy Cross, and if there's trouble, to shoot Balshannon and Chalkeye. They're covered now. The wall of the stable court by the South- west Bastion to be mined with dynamite, and touched off at ten p. m. prompt; ten riders to get in through the breach in the wall, and drive out the bunch of horses; one man with an axe to split all the saddles in the harness-room, then join the herders." "Leave out," said McCalmont, "all detail for pointing, swinging, and driving the herd. Go on." "At one minute to ten, before the wall is blown away, ten riders are to make a bluff at attacking the main gate, and keep on amusing the garrison until the men with the naphtha cans have fired the private house. "Rendezvous for all hands at Laguna by midnight, where we catch remounts, and sleep until daybreak, with a night herd of two, and one camp guard. At dawn we begin to gather cattle, while the horse wrangler and two men drive the remuda east. Rendezvous at Wolf Gap." Lord Balshannon laughed aloud. "And how about poor old Bryant's posse of men?" he asked. "Sheriff Bryant," said the Captain, "allows that he's to catch us in a sure fine trap, five miles due west of Lordsburgh. And now," he called to the mounted robber, "tell the boys that all awdehs are cancelled, that I'm supping to-night at Holy Crawss, and that the boys will wait for me at the place we fixed in case of accidents." The man rode off hostile and growling aloud, while Balshannon stood watching to see which way he went. "McCalmont," said he, and I took note of just one small quiver in his voice, "may I venture to ask one question?" "A hundred, seh." "You seem to know the arrangement of my house—its military weakness. How did you learn that?" The outlaw stood up facing him, and took from the breast of his shirt a folded paper. Balshannon and I spread it open, and found a careful plan of Holy Cross. At the foot of the paper there was a memorandum signed "George Ryan." "I may tell you," said the robber, "that if I succeeded in burning yo' home, stealing yo' hawsses, and running yo' cattle, Mr. George Ryan proposed to pay my wolves the sum of ten thousand dollars." "Carry out your plans," the patrone was pleased all to pieces. "I'd love to fight your wolves. I've got some dynamite, too! Think of what you're losing!" "Lose nothing!" said the robber. "I'll collect fifty thousand dollars compensation from Ryan!" He stooped down and gathered his son in his arms. "And now, will you have us for guests in yo' home? Say the word, and we go." Balshannon lifted his hat and made a little bow, much polite. "My house," he answered in Spanish, "is yours, señor!" CHAPTER V BACK TO THE WOLF PACK Being given to raising fowls, I'm instructed on eggs a whole lot. Killed young, an egg is a sure saint, being a pure white on the outside, and inwardly a beautiful yellow; but since she ain't had no chance to go bad she's not responsible. But when an egg has lingered in this wicked world, exposed to heat, cold, and other temptations, she succumbs, being weary of her youth and shamed of virtue. So she participates in vice to the best of her knowledge and belief. Yes, an old egg is bad every time, and the more bluff she makes with her white and holy shell, the more she's rotten inside, a whited sepulchre. I reckon it's been the same with me, for at Holy Cross I was kept good and fresh by the family. Shell, white, and yolk, I was a good egg then, with no special inducements to vice. Now I know in my poor old self what an uphill pull it is trying to reform a stale egg. In those days, when I thought I was being good on my own merits, I had no mercy on bad eggs like poor McCalmont, however much he tried to reform. Balshannon took me aside, and wanted to know if he could trust this robber. "So far as you can throw a dawg," said I. That night the lady fed alone, and we dined in the great hall, the patrone at the head of the table, McCalmont and Curly on one side, the padre and me on the other. Curly's ankle being twisted, and wrapped up most painful in wet bandages, the priest allowed that he couldn't ride away with his father, but had better stay with us. Curly shied at that. "I won't stay none!" he growled. But McCalmont began to talk for Curly, explaining that robbery was a poor vocation in life, full of uncertainties. He wanted his son to be a cowboy. "If he rides for me," says I, "he'll have to herd with my Mexicans. They're greasers, but Curly's white, and they won't mix." "I'd rather," says McCalmont, "for Arizona cowboys are half-wolf anyways, but this outfit is all dead gentle, and good for my cub." Then the boss offered wages to Curly, and the priest took sides with him. So Curly kicked, and I growled, but the boy was left at Holy Cross to be converted, and taught punching cows. As to McCalmont, he rode off that night, gathered his wolves, and jumped down on Mr. George Ryan at the Jim Crow Mine, near Grave City. He wanted "compensation" for not getting any plunder out of Holy Cross, so he robbed Mr. Ryan of seventy thousand dollars. The newspapers in Grave City sobbed over poor Mr. Ryan, and howled for vengeance on McCalmont's wolves. Curly read the newspaper account, and was pleased all to pieces. Then he howled all night because he was left behind. It took me some time to get used to that small youngster, who was a whole lot older and wiser than he looked. He had a room next to my quarters, where he camped on a bed in the far corner, and acted crazy if ever I tried to come in. Because he insisted on keeping the shutters closed, that room was dark as a wolf's mouth—a sort of den, where one could see nothing but his eyes, glaring green or flame-coloured like those of a panther. If he slept, he curled up like a little wild animal, one ear cocked, one eye open, ready to start broad awake at the slightest sound. Once I caught him sucking his swollen ankle, which he said was a sure good medicine. I have seen all sorts of animals dress their own wounds that way, but never any human except little Curly. As to his food, he would eat the things he knew about, but if the taste of a dish was new to him, he spat as if he were poisoned. At first he was scared of Lady Balshannon, hated the patrone, and surely despised me; but one day I saw him limping, attended by four of our dogs and a brace of cats, across to the stable-yard. I sneaked upstairs to the roof and watched his play. There must have been fifty ponies in the yard, and every person of them seemed to know Curly, for those who were loose came crowding round him, and those who were tied began whickering. Horses have one call, soft and low, which they keep for the man they love, and one after another gave the love-cry for Curly. He treated them all like dirt until he came to Rebel, an outlaw stallion. Once Rebel tried to murder a Mexican; several times he had pitched off the best of our broncho busters; always he acted crazy with men and savage with mares. Yet he never even snorted at Curly, but let that youngster lead him by the mane to a mounting-block; then waited for him to climb up, and trotted him round the yard tame as a sheep. "Curly!" said I from the roof. And the boy stiffened at once, hard and fierce. "Curly, that horse is yours." "I know that!" said Curly; "cayn't you see fo' yo'self?" The dogs loved Curly first, then the horses, and next the Mexican cowboys, but at last he seemed to take hold of all our outfit. He thawed out slowly to me, then to the patrone and the old priest; afterwards even to Lady Balshannon. So we found out that this cub from the Wolf Pack was only fierce and wild with strangers, but inside so gentle that he was more like a girl than a boy. He was rather wide at the hips, bow-legged just a trace, and when his ankle healed we found he had a most tremendous grip in the saddle, the balance of a hawk. Yes, that small, slight, delicate lad was the most perfect rider I've seen in a world of great horsemen. The meanest horse was tame as a dog with Curly, while in tracking, scouting, and natural sense with cattle I never knew his equal. Yet, as I said before, he was small, weak, badly built—more like a girl than a boy. With strangers he was a vicious young savage; with friends, like a little child. He did a year's work on the range with me, and that twelve months I look back to as a sort of golden age at Holy Cross. We were raising the best horses and the finest cattle in Arizona; prices were high, and the patrone was too busy to have time for cards or drink over at Grave City; and even the lady braced up enough to go for evening rides. And then the Honourable James du Chesnay rode home to us from college. The patrone and his lady were making a feast for their son; the cowboys were busy as a swarm of bees decorating the great hall; the padre fluttered about like a black moth, getting in everybody's way; so Curly and I rode out on the Lordsburgh trail to meet up with the Honourable Jim. "I hate him!" Curly snarled. "Why for, boy?" "Dunno. I hate him!" I told Curly about my first meeting with that same little boy Jim, aged six, and him turning his hot gun loose against hostile Indians, shooting gay and promiscuous, scared of nothing. "I hate him," snarled Curly between his teeth. "Last night the lady was reading to me yonder, on the roof-top." "Well?" "There was a big chief on the range, an old long-horn called Abraham, and his lil' ole squaw Sarah. They'd a boy in their lodge like me, another woman's kid, not a son, but good enough for them while they was plumb lonely. That Ishmael colt was sure wild—came of bad stock, like me. 'His hand,' says the book, 'will be up agin every man, and every man's hand agin him.' I reckon that colt came of robber stock, same as me, but I allow they liked him some until their own son came. Then their own son came—a shorely heap big warrior called Isaac—and the old folks, they didn't want no more outlaw colts running loose around on their past...